


Ready For the Fight, and Fate

by t0bemadeofglass



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, F/M, Violence, War, War dog!Loki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 22:31:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t0bemadeofglass/pseuds/t0bemadeofglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The cold, thin air around him sings with blood, with chaos associated to war, filling his lungs with the stench of the battlefield and the faintest of laughs on his tongue filters through the clashing of metal on metal, sword against sword, and man against man.  But he is not a man.  He hasn’t been since he can remember."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ready For the Fight, and Fate

**Author's Note:**

> I just can't stay away, huh. Well, this was supposed to be a writing exercise before NaNoWriMo for me to figure out how one of my characters was to, essentially, evolve into this war dog, and then I figured what the hell--she acts too much like Loki anyway, I'll just make it a fic. Voila! I present unto you my first real attempt at writing a battle and/or fight sequence in a medieval setting. Hope you enjoy!  
> Title comes from the song "Iron" by Woodkid, which is absolutely gorgeous and perfect for fight sequences. Just saying.

The cold, thin air around him sings with blood, with chaos associated to war, filling his lungs with the stench of the battlefield and the faintest of laughs on his tongue filters through the clashing of metal on metal, sword against sword, and man against man.  But he is not a man.  He hasn’t been since he can remember.  His sword swings, cuts the man before him as easily as it cuts through the air, lodges itself into his throat and pushes through muscle, bone, and arteries until the head comes clean off and hits the ground.  Seconds after the body follows, blood spurting and coating his own hands with yet another layer of the life giving essence.  There’s a foe behind him, larger than he could imagine, and just before the giant can swing his club to take off his head, his sword pushes into the beast’s gullet, slips through organs until its steel head pokes out the otherside.  There’s a laugh once more on his lips as he ducks down to avoid the last swing of the giant, whose brain has not quite realized what has been done, before the body stiffens and Loki pushes it off the blade.  His black hair whirls about him, like the tattered robes of a reaper collecting its souls, as he sets his eyes on a new target.  A new opponent.  This one, a royal, backs away, recognizing this challenger is not simply a leader of nations, or even a knight fighting for one.  This man has no honor, no code to follow for combat.  No rules, only chaos.  And where Loki goes, this chaos follows.

The hunt is on as his prey disappears into the buffeting crowds of soldiers, some on horseback, some on their knees, all transfixed with their battle.  Loki weaves through them as the fates weave strings together, sowing discord in the ranks of the opposers as he moves, feet light and nearly silent on the ground as his lithe body twists this way and that, avoiding blows to his chest and throat with the greatest of ease.  More than once he pulls a dagger out to slice through the throat of some adversary, the warm gush of blood like fire on his hands, before he moves on to track the man running away from him. He doesn't fear him getting away and so he takes his time with it, draws out the suspense, because he values the sweetness of the victory that will follow.

The sun is setting on the blood stained ground by the time Loki steps into the forest. More bodies are strewn over here, pulled away by servant boys and squires, hoping to help their master or else rob him of his valuables before leaving his body to rot. The greatest casualties of war are not the lives lost but the courage, the commitment and faithfulness. All yield to the blood-craze and unabashed desire to get ahead in life. Some make it, most don't. Loki ponders this as he steps through the forest, following thick boot prints in the mud, breath fogging as it leaves his mouth and the night air comes to wrap around him. The blood on his hands has long since cooled and he desires to feel the heat he so loves once again, craves the fear stained liquid so sweet it makes his mouth water. He’s getting close now, close enough to hear the quickening breath of the prince who thought himself strong enough to win this battle.  Loki cannot help but chuckle at that, and even though the noise of his laugh sets the prince running like a scared rabbit through the woods it does nothing but elevate his mood.  His feet pick up, following the sound of brush being pushed through, of twigs being snapped beneath heavy boots.  The dog of war has been unleashed and he will have his prey.  

It doesn’t take him long to catch up, as light footed as he is, and he sinks his first knife into the shoulder of the fleeing royal.  The man shouts, wretching forward as he struggles to reach behind in time to yank the knife out and throw it to the ground.  It’s cost him too much time and Loki comes behind to grab him by the wounded appendage and slam him against a tree.  Grins when the prince’s eyes widen.  He pulls out his sword and Loki does the same, but throws his to the side.  No, he wants to be close to do battle, wants to press the bastard until he cannot back up further, wants to see the light leave his eyes with the last hints of his humanity before he hits the ground.  He wants and wants and wants, and the prince gives all he has, lunging forward, sword positioned to slice the attacker to ribbons.  Deftly, Loki twists out of the way, ducking under the high-aimed blade to slice into the man’s side, slipping the knife through leather and chainmail.  When he turns back the prince’s face is drawing pale as he begins to realize he does not face a normal weapon, nor a normal man.  The fear makes Loki tremble with need, and so he rushes the prince this time.  One knife aims for the prince’s face and is blocked by the sword, but he’s left his shield deep within the forest, thinking his scant armor enough to protect him.  The realization of his mistake etches itself in the fine line around his eyes as once more Loki’s knife slips through his guards, this time pressing just under the rib.  Blood pools, staining the blade, and it’s not enough.  But Loki’s letting himself get careless, feels the edge of the knife slide across his cheek as the prince pulls away, hissing in pain.  Loki cannot do anything but laugh, the noise humorless and high-pitched, sending the other man’s nerves reeling.  

“Why don’t you fight me like a man instead of taking cheap shots, coward!” The prince shouts, though the words lose their strength as he watches the cut on Loki’s face stitch itself together within the instant, though the blood on the prince’s blade is dark blue.  His eyes blow wide, mouth hangs open, and Loki allows himself a grin.  

“You think I am a man?” He muses, quiet voice more terrifying than a shout, more even than the laugh that just left his lips.  He’s not worried, not afraid of anything.  He’s playing, like a cat with the unlucky mouse, until he grows bored, but he’s sure this prince still has more to offer him.  As though to prove a point, Loki takes advantage of the silence between them to roll up his sleeve.  Black and blue  ink stretches far across his skin, and as he presses his knife to the exposed limb.  Blue blood pools where he cuts, slips slowly down his arm, before it heals itself just as quickly.  No scars, little blood, and the ink on his skin seems to shift.  

It is all the prince can do to not empty his stomach on the ground at the display.  He’d lost this battle the minute he stepped onto the field to face his adversary and now he knows it.  Loki breathes deep, smelling the man’s fear stain the air around them, can practically see the bile turning in his stomach.  He steps closer to the mortal man, catches the trembling in his shoulders, and grabs the man’s blade before it can be pressed into his chest, ignoring how it cut into his fingertips as he wrenches it from his grip to throw it to the ground.  Not that it would do a thing, and the prince seems to resign himself to that.  He tries instead to resort to physical violence, thinking perhaps the trick is to take the villain apart with his hand.  Loki allows the blow to strike him, cracking his nose as blue blood spreads across his face.  He sneers, green eyes flashing red, and takes the prince by the throat with one free hand, a knife pressing to the man’s navel.  His gaze slips down for a moment, catches sight of the gold medallion around the prince’s neck, emblazoned with the crest of his family, before he looks back up.  

“Scream for me, princeling,” he whispers, sliding the knife into the man’s belly as though it were butter, then pulling the smooth blade upwards.  It’s all the man can do to let out the quickest of shouts, the noise ragged and torn from his throat, before Loki fillets him entirely and drops the opened body to the ground.  The heat of the blood grounds him, and he reaches forward to grab the medallion and pocket it.  He cleans himself of his own blood and takes the prince by the hair to drag his carcass back to the battlefield, to be fed to the carrion and the fates below.  His men have made mincemeat of the opposing troops, and Loki grins to see the wreckage in the dim light, the bodies spread and split across the ground, a feast for the birds and worms.  As he throws the body of the prince forward a cry of victory rises up in the crowds.  They will head home that night, return to their kingdom as surely as an envoy will be sent to his lady to ensure this does not happen again, to sue for peace and beg for mercy.  

  

Natasha’s eyes are gleaming as Loki steps up to her after a three days march, the medallion of the fallen prince presented to her with a bowed head.  She runs a hand lazily through his thick, matted black hair, before accepting the token and placing it in her pocket.  It will join her collection later that evening.  As it is she turns to leave, beckoning him to follow, as his men take their places in their homes to be welcomed by their own ladies.  They’ve lost few this time, perhaps a dozen or two, and their memories will be honored, their families well rewarded for the sacrifices made.  Loki cares not for that.  Already his fingers itch, desperate to return to the chaos of war, to the madness of battle.  He loves it so, nearly as much as he loves his lady.  Once inside she turns to him once more and crushes her lips to his, pulling him hard to her, not caring that he tastes of blood and reeks of the dead.  If anything, he thinks as he growls and wraps one arm around her hips, she likes it as much as he does, and he loves her all the more for it.

“Bathe,” she orders once she pulls away, “and make yourself ready in my room.  We have quite a bit of time to make up for and I’m going to get my fill of you before I send you off to war again.”  

He grins and licks his lips, bowing his head for the quickest of moments before sauntering off.  Chaos, he supposes, can wait for just a few evenings.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> It might get continued in the future after NaNoWriMo. I love the idea of Nat and Loki conquering everything. Buahahahaha.


End file.
